The Tasmanian Envoy

By Leonid Anin

Would anyone object to a world where all living creatures have equal rights? How would enforcing this equality work in day-to-day life? Would it not generate a society that legally implements the harvesting of humans, along with other animals, for food similar to the once-habitual butchering of cows and sheep and chickens and pigs?
Victor Sorokin-Benoit narrates his story – the epic of the Envoy Extraordinary to the Biocratic Society of the European Union of Life. He tells how he happened to arrive in the French Riviera from Tasmania, about his meetings with civilized human flesh eaters and their animal lovers, but most of all about Natasha – a charming cannibal who caused him to lose his composure. The Envoy relates his encounters with Natasha’s past as well as the shadowy person who is determined to destroy her.
Victor’s story depicts the desperate attempts of the Tasmanian Envoy to save one human being at all costs and convince her to flee with him from an ominous united population to the safety of the last humanist society on Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leonid Anin
• Release date: Dec 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005608712

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The Tasmanian Envoy

Copyright 2013 Leonid Anin

Published by Leonid Anin at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Morning of the Envoy

Chapter 2 – The Appointment

Chapter 3 – Corsair and Pyrate

Chapter 4 – Uninvited Guests

Chapter 5 – The Manuscript of Sasha Sokolovsky

Chapter 6 – What to Do with the Ass?

Chapter 7 – Elena Forelle

Chapter 8 – The Palace of the Equality of Life

Chapter 9 – Buridan and Allele

Chapter 10 – The Death of the Ass

Chapter 11 – The Bureau of Lost Friends

Chapter 12 – The Identification of Bodies

Chapter 13 – The Union of the Formula

Chapter 14 – From Belfast to Nice

Chapter 15 – Captain Faulkner’s Little Finger and Sergeant Doll’s Ear

Chapter 16 – The Idea, the Tiger and the Performer

Chapter 17 – In the Remand Centre

Chapter 18 – The Humanist Natasha Taminsky

Chapter 19 – Conversations and Preparations

Chapter 20 – Father Iosaf Yakhontov

Chapter 21 – The Losses and the Gain

Chapter 22 – At the Crossing

The human race is unimportant. It is the self that must not be betrayed.

—John Fowles

Chapter 1 Morning of the Envoy

On that day at about 9 o’clock in the morning I was finishing my ablutions – I spat into the sink and tried to describe the gob in words. It has no form, its colour unclear, but there is a lot of digested essence and occasionally deep emotions of a person within it. Perhaps a mouthful of spit encompasses previously unrevealed poetic images.

From a substance secreted by the body, I went on to look at my reflection in the mirror – the image of a man who had reached a mature age, with no hair but with an attractive, smoothly arched nose. Do I look like Francesco Petrarch, one of the first humanist scholars? All the known images of the great man depict him crowned with a laurel wreath, but his head itself is wrapped in a cloth looking something in between a tight-fitting hood and a woman’s scarf. What was that – a tribute to a fashion of the time or an attempt to hide the lack of hair? Was Francesco, like me, bald?

A knock on the door interrupted my smooth train of thought. Someone wanted to see me and apparently urgently. Opening to a visitor, I felt that the novelty invades my existence and maybe an adventure awaits me. A young man stood in the bright rectangle of the doorway and a sheep loomed behind him. There seemed to be nothing unusual. Nevertheless, the idea of ‘unusual’ appeared, and then another, Do I really want adventures? When they are not nearby, when they are in the fourth theoretical dimension, then I am happy to act as the main participant of any and all exploits and campaigns, but as soon as they turn out to be close-at-hand… well, I’m not at all sure.

We both stood there in silence, separated by the doorstep. I moved back, allowing the potential bearer of adventures to enter the house. He did not stir. A young man of 30 or perhaps 35, medium height with a full head of unkempt hair resembling a long uncut fleece, his eyes hidden behind glasses, which looked as if they had been licked and covered with a sticky film of saliva. I made another step back and the stranger decided to speak. He began with an imitation of a sheep bleating and then produced other sounds in a dialect unfamiliar to me. Perhaps it was dog, bird or even a universal biological language. The language of life? Without interrupting the visitor, I waited for a continuation. He realised the futility of the attempt, smiled sadly and issued a phrase in a better-known tongue.

Baa-baa. Are you the Ambassador?

The Ambassador… what kind of ambassador am I? I do not have any authority – I cannot have. No staff either, nobody except Mlle Soya. And no communication with the country I represent. However, I do live here legally. Perhaps not completely, but they know who I am, where I came from and it is assumed that everyone is aware of why I am here. If you need to specify further, it should be said: I am not an immigrant, tourist or businessman, and neither am I a secret agent. I am the Envoy of the Humanitarian States of Tasmania and South Australia to the European Union of Life.

I am the Envoy Extraordinary. I am their messenger, I said, with a slight emphasis on ‘their’ and without naming the country, which would be repulsive to the inhabitants of Europe. Therefore, I said, ‘their messenger,’ trying to sound as welcoming as possible. He took off his glasses and blinked several times. A handsome young man with a tired face. He stood in front of me and nervously twiddled with his glasses. I felt the need to introduce myself again in their customary way, which involves communicating in the dialogue of the nonhuman citizens of our European Union.

Woof-woof! I am the Envoy.

Yes, yes… baa-baa. That’s why we came.

That is why anyone who wants to can come here, anyone who has a whim to look at the biological and social rudiment, who wants to express sympathy or ask how I dare to remain what I am and whether I am going to transform myself into an ordinary member of the biocratic society. I rarely open the door to visitors; Mlle Soya does this. Have I made a mistake answering the door just when Soya has a free morning? My visitor noticed my hesitation and pleaded for permission to stay.

I understand everything, Mr-the-Envoy. But we, baa-baa, are a special case. We left the Farm… we left the Equality Farm!

Runaway from the Farm helot! Persecuted, refusing to fulfil his duty as a serf. He must be called Helot – there is no other name for him!

Please, come on in, I said.

I stepped aside, flattened against the wall. Of course it happens – it should happen – but I have now met a human escapee from the Equality Farm for the first time. A remarkable case – a new experience. My heart began to pound faster. The fugitive went inside and the sheep followed him. A lovely animal – I have learned to look at sheep, goats and cows with their eyes… almost learnt to put myself in their European hooves. What a sweet creature… surely these two are bound by passion and love. The helot’s flight from the Farm became not particularly mysterious.

Helot! Woof! Woof! I said, affirming the name assigned to him.

Helot? He considered it for a second. Well, yes Helot, if you, baa-baa, prefer.

We went to the reception of my residence. This room also serves as an office and a dining room. The sheep behaved decently – she did not bleat, did not grab and chew on a curtain or tablecloth, mainly because none of these were available. The young man also stood with dignity. He stopped near his girl… sheep-friend, who lowered herself in the middle of the open floor. I sat in my usual place at the desk of the Envoy.

And how can I help you today? I hope you know that neither I nor my guests or even the residence itself enjoy diplomatic immunity.

I know; I don’t know, he addressed my questions in reverse order.

It’s good that you know. It would be sad to shatter your illusions.

And her name, baa-baa, is Allele, he finally decided to introduce his partner.

Nice to meet you both. She is probably not comfortable in this cramped space.

I got up, opened a door to the courtyard and guided the four-legged visitor to the exit. As already noted, she was a pleasant creature but smelled of unclean sheepskin and I wanted to remove her from the house. Helot became agitated and jumped up to follow the animal.

Please, do not worry! She is much better off in the yard, I assured him.

There was no need to tell Helot that this would be better for me. To reassure him, I added, There is no way out, not even a cat, woof-woof, could escape. Also there’s some lovely grass out along the fence. I think Allele would like to take care of it.

It seemed to me that my guest was exhausted and hungry. Some hospitality should be shown. When I returned from the kitchen, Helot occupied my place, sat in my favourite chair, facing the door and trying not to let his sheep-friend out of his sight. He took coffee and dug into a sandwich, revealing white and even teeth.

The day began remarkably – in a tiny courtyard of the Envoy’s residence, a runaway sheep peacefully plucked grass from under the fence and her partner nervously devoured the sandwich expecting some as yet unspoken favours from me. The appearance of the sheep created a sense of peace – she was a creature who did not think about her fate. I know little about the cloven-hoofed breeds and am not a judge of their merits, but this Allele was an exceptional example: she had large, sad almond-shaped eyes, hair-fleece flew on both sides of her elongated face and it seemed that she could throw her tresses back with an elegant movement of her head. For me the least attractive sight is a sheep from behind – it appears as a clumsy combination of grey, dark, shaggy and stick-like, which contradicts both my aesthetic sensibilities and the Darwinian theory of evolution. Among its relatives, Allele was a rare exception and the first known to me. Yes, Helot’s taste was fine. If it is now conventional to choose a partner from a different species, perhaps, it should be somebody like Allele… only Allele.

Having looked enough at the sheep and the diminishing sandwich, I decided that it was the right moment to rekindle a conversation. In front of me was a man in need. I might not give him any real support, but to learn about his plans for the future and the role of the Humanitarian States and their Envoy in those plans was appropriate. I began with a usual introduction – imitating the language of a chosen animal. I uttered ‘woof-woof’ not in a rude or aggressive way, but because I thought it is customary with dogs to bark at a new acquaintance.

It seems you haven’t been adequately fed at the, erm… Equality Farm. Sorry, but I cannot provide the right food. I don’t have hay in the house and for obvious reasons I do not keep products containing the Solidarity Mince.

Helot cocked his head, and I noted how similar his mop was to Allele’s fleece. On the bed of love they’d mix and tangle and it would be impossible to distinguish between individual threads of fleece and locks of hair. Following this logic, I tried to imagine the arrangement of a bed on which it were convenient for men to make love with sheep, but Helot interrupted the nascent chain of thought.

Baa… I was well fed and Allele received the best nutrition. We had everything… It’s not about food! After we left the territory three days ago, baa… I ate little but Allele was not short of…

He spoke in abrupt phrases, throwing glances at me, then at the courtyard where his sheep-friend grazed.

Sure, it was all like that, I tried to calm the excited young man.

Helot, however, did not want to calm down; after fleeing the Farm and spending three days in the wilderness, he wanted to talk.

I was happy! I was proud! Then I met Allele! Look at her! Is it not obvious – she must live! Is it not clear?! One cannot help but love her! Baa-baa!

Helot looked at the sheep and then at his hands, licked breadcrumbs from his palm and swallowed the last of his coffee.

Perhaps, but what do you want from me? How can I help?

Baa-baa. I don’t know. I just want happiness and life for Allele.

The fugitive was beginning to annoy me. He did not have any plan of action. He showed up here to tell me about his love, complain about his life and get a solution to his problems delivered to him on a silver plate. Allele raised her head and looked at us with blurred eyes. Helot lowered his head. There would be no meaningful proposals from him and no exciting eyewitness story of a person from the Farm. Further conversation seemed pointless. However, humanitarian principles did not allow me to show them to the door.

You can stay in the residence for now. Nobody comes here except Mademoiselle Soya. And her, I pointed to the sheep, I’ll take to a shed.

Take me to the same shed and lock me up with Allele, muttered Helot.

The situation became ridiculous. I did not intend to throw out the person who came to seek refuge, but also I did not want to turn my house into a pen for livestock.

I just can’t leave you both here in sight. This is still the residence of the Envoy of a sovereign state! The sheep will have to be in the shed. In the meantime, I’ll bring some food and consider the situation!

I’ll stay in the same place as Allele! We cannot be apart even for a short time. Baa-baa.

It was futile to argue, and the proposed option was ultimately fine with me. I locked Helot and the sheep in a wooden shed in the courtyard, poured a bucket of water for them and asked the young man to not make noise.

* * *

Keys and money in one pocket and a gun in another – that’s how I left my residence. The dwelling of the Envoy of the Humanitarian States was an old three-story villa of the late 19th century, converted about 60 years ago into apartments with a tiny parking lot that barely accommodates my VW Golf. Behind the house there is a garden with a single crooked olive tree, unattractive shrubs and thickets of greyish-greenish grass. To get there, you need to go behind the building from another street and through a narrow gate. Madame Fix, the owner of the second-floor apartment, has the key to the gate. I have never met Madame Fix. It seems that she no longer lives here – maybe she has left, was elected to the Equality Farm or maybe died… I just don’t know.

Once I asked Mlle Soya what she thinks about our garden. Mademoiselle, while continuing cooking, replied that the plot outside was not a part of the Envoy’s residence, but its background. Considering your status, I don’t think you have to take care of your background, she added. Thus, we both reconciled with the overgrown scrub, the inability to enter it and the invisible or perhaps mythical Madame Fix from the second floor. Between my residence and Madame Fix’s apartment there is another floor, the entrance to which is boarded up and the windows are blinded by shutters. Thus, de facto, the villa belongs to me, but there is no announcing plaque on the door, no sign on the street directing to the representation of my country.

It is 15 minutes’ walk to the Promenade des Anglais, and it is about 20 to The Institute of Global Food Problems. Pausing in front of the residence, I wondered where to go first. There was no priority, therefore it was not easy to decide. Eventually I remembered that at this time of day at the Institute, students would be everywhere in the laboratory of Dr Pyrate. The picture of a student crowd helped to choose the direction to the sea. I dislike students. As the Envoy of the Humanitarian States, I have to sympathise with people, but sometimes I can’t; I cannot force myself – most people annoy me. Generally I do not like people. I like my friends and relatives and I love beautiful women… if what I feel is love – I am not sure – I have a better idea of what passions and desires are. These feelings are recorded in my genome. Not love. There is either no love in my genes or it is encoded with an unknown cipher. At some stage I tried to unravel this cryptography, to find the only suitable key, but then… by now I have suspended these attempts. I do not know whether it is worth going back to those searches. I am just attached to some folk like I am to delicious food, good sleep or a sip of brandy. Hurray! My attitude towards humans fits in with my current environment – the European biocratic civilisation, where I have the honour of being the Envoy Extraordinary.

Abstract topics are my weakness. Ruminating about them in my head, I forget my troubles and upcoming commissions. While brooding I reached the embankment, approached a parapet and closed my eyes. Rays of sunshine pierced the darkened lenses of my glasses, penetrated my eyelids and drove away all the worries. It was the best time of the day – the crop of garbage and the waste of life of the past 24 hours had been removed from the embankment, and a new one had not yet begun to form. It felt that one could walk along the Promenade as far as the Port without fear of stepping on a mine laid by an innocent creature. I continued to stand still although out of habit my right hand rested on the grip of a pistol. Even at the most peaceful hour in a European capital, the possibility of a dangerous encounter cannot be ruled out. Someone pushed my elbow. I tightened my grip on the gun, opened my eyes and, trying not to stir, squinted to the left. There was no tiger, wolf or other representatives of dangerous breeds. A peaceful goat stood behind. Judging by her closed eyes, extended-to-the-Sun snout and a gently moving jaw, we both were filled with the same feeling of liberation from worries. I moved two steps to the left and turned my back to the sea. In front of me appeared a rare dotted line of cars slowly moving along the road. The sea continued to roll its warm waves behind me, and a sad realisation arose in my mind that I would not step over the parapet, descend onto the pebbles and plunge into the refreshing Mediterranean water. Today was the same as yesterday, and like almost every day… all because I cannot stand rats. I can’t stand rats even more than I don’t like humans. You can still talk to people, exchange opinions, spend time together, but not with a rat. Sure, scientists have shown that they are the most intelligent animals but I can’t do anything about my feelings! Dislike of mice and rats sets me apart from citizens of the European Union of Life, who have taken upon themselves the obligation to love all forms of life in the world. Well, the Envoy does not have to follow blindly the customs of the country where he serves. It is true that the rodents on this beach eat healthy food, that the number of microbes they carry is within the range considered acceptable in the European Union. Well, I still refuse to relax on pebbles, marked with their droppings and the occasional disturbing touch of bare tails. There are several places on the Côte d’Azur suitable for swimming, but they are not in Nice.

On the Promenade the usual morning activity had begun: cyclists moved in two directions, several horses shuffled their hooves as they roamed freely, the goat that tried to get to know me continued to slowly rotate her jaws and a lonely sheep with no idea where to go made haphazard movements, forcing cyclists to execute dangerous manoeuvres.

Opposite the Hotel Negresco I found a clean bench and spent half an hour recording the events of the morning. I do not keep a journal, but I often write down interesting experiences and document my thoughts. Who knows, maybe someday I will publish my memoirs? I wonder how to name my future book. Perhaps, The Remarks of a Humanist on the Culture of Modern Europe.

It was time for my daily walk. Turning my back to the airport, I headed for the city centre.

* * *

I walked along the embankment and through the park where the rarest representatives of European fauna live. On the left was the main street of the capital. Along it, a tram crawled at 5 mph to allow cats, dogs, sheep and turtles to move, run or crawl out of its way. On the right side of the street was Amalgam – a café accommodating everyone I came to meet. I lingered for two minutes at a tram stop. I cannot deny myself the pleasure of observing people, especially acquaintances, when they believe that I am not around. Such studies give me strength, allow the rising above the masses and affirming myself as the messenger of a different civilisation.

All of them together and each one separately looked ridiculously pathetic. Arthur gestured expressively, opening his mouth and uttering inaudible phrases. He carefully bowed his dome sparsely decorated with greying hair trying not to expose the clearing on the crown. Benjamin, his back to me, moved his head from side to side offering Natasha a drink. Natasha lowered hers to the table. Her usual reaction to importunity is not to object, not to refuse, but to look down. Even from here at a distance of 50 yards, I could feel the waves of her stubbornness directed at Benjamin. Only the tiger Bars looked as he did when I come to the company.

I stepped out of the shadow of the tram stop and walked briskly toward Arthur and his entourage. In a quarter of a minute, I heard his confident voice filling the space.

It’s lunchtime. For an hour and a half we will forget about things that seem important. Instead, let us immerse ourselves in a time free of worries, let us feel the taste, laziness and intoxication. Let us turn into simple representatives of the fauna like our friend Bars here.

Arthur Taminsky stroked the tiger with his foot, and a low chuffing created the necessary accompaniment to the speech. Arthur chuffed like a tiger too. He looked around and focused on the approaching figure: me, with my friendly gestures and a welcoming smile. He smiled back and lifted his healthy, ready-for-lunch body from the chair.

Yeah, the Envoy… please, honour us with your presence. I already started worrying – for three days you did not come to have lunch. Please join the company! Great, glad to see you in good health and an excellent mood!

Arthur spoke in a comforting tone, a little louder than required, as if addressing the public in a courtroom. Only occasionally he spiced up his speech with an animal sound. Even here in a café, despite adjournment of business matters, Arthur could not forget the attentive audience. Well, he had no judicial wig on but that was not an impediment to proceedings. Arthur addresses me with a ceremonial familiarity and not just me alone. The same notes are present in conversations with his younger colleagues like Benjamin. Such a manner allows Mr Taminsky, despite a multitude of acquaintances and companionships, still not admit anyone into his intimate space. I am well aware of his social strategy. I feel that even if my attitude towards others is not exactly the same, at least it belongs to a similar kind. I am attracted to the judge’s company and think he has reciprocal feelings. We shook hands and I sat at the neighbouring table that Benjamin moved closer leaving a decent gap between the two surfaces.

Perhaps it’s the right time, said Benjamin, sitting down.

He looked at Natasha and addressed her. Natasha, however, did not notice anyone. She was preoccupied with something invisible. I suddenly realised that even the most attractive woman could easily acquire the resemblance of an animal. Six months, even a month ago she was different. I admired her. Like most of those present, Natasha peppered her phrases with animalistic insertions, but her quiet crow’s croak did not annoy – it rather caressed the ears. However, now she had turned into a donkey, with a fixed, thoughtless and tenacious donkey gaze, donkey neck and a donkey fringe stubbornly falling across her forehead. Even the T-shirt that clinched to her body was like donkey’s skin. Her ear – I saw only a part of it peeking out from under her hair, but this was enough – it would be more becoming if she actually had a donkey’s ear! I had the irritating suspicion that her T-shirt was hiding an animal’s udder. Almost in every aspect, Natasha turned into a human donkey… still – an attractive jenny.

Perhaps it’s the right time, repeated Benjamin.

What he meant by the ‘right time’ I never knew. The waiter came up. He barked twice then meowed, and only after such a commonly accepted introduction did he speak.

Creatures, monsieur-dame, are you ready to order?

The creatures-monsieur-dame looked up at the herald of food who appeared before them. They dismissed the world’s problems and sorrows, and the usual half-dialogue, half-monologue concerning the choice of food began.

The usual for me! asserted Arthur in his impressive baritone timbre.

Full lunch, and nothing for our friend Bars, said the waiter in the tone of an accomplice as he made an entry in his notebook.

Natasha? What will you have? worried Benjamin.

You just worry about what you want, Benjamin, snapped Arthur and immediately gave a detailed justification. She doesn’t eat at this time. Food in the morning and evening; in the afternoon it’s wine and cigarettes. Someone should study why so many healthy human females avoid food in the middle of the day.

You’re wrong, papa! Natasha entered the conversation, Hardly anybody feeds like me! Caw! Caw!

Sorry daughter, but there are really only a few, otherwise science would become involved and boring but convincing articles might appear. Something like The Nutrition Theory of N. Taminsky. Boffins are keen to explain everything that is ordinary.

Arthur’s voice grew stronger; he felt a surge of desire to discuss a topic that materialised from thin air. Bars chuffed with satisfaction underneath the table. A young cow appeared behind Arthur, apparently attracted by his speech. Her tongue was almost licking the judge’s shoulder. Sensing meat, Bars made a sound well understood by the intruder. The cow hastily departed, leaving in her wake a trail of upset tables and broken plates.

Instead of repeating his stale aphorism word for word, Benjamin stated, It’s high time, then ventured, coffee and a glass of Sauvignon for madam. Arthur reassured Bars with a touch of the toe and hit the table twice with his palm.

Chuff! I beg you, Benny! Stop caring. Do not spoil lunch! Even if you persuade my daughter to have something, no good will come of it. We’ll have to endure her sulking.

Benjamin nodded and, without looking at the waiter, said, A glass of Burgundy and a green hamburger. The waiter took a step aside and raised his eyes to the sky. Such a gesture meant that my turn has come. Having received my order, he turned his back and left without saying a word. I have long become accustomed to such treatment – anyone, even the most insignificant employee in the performance of duties, must show contempt for a representative of the Humanitarian States. Well, being the legate of that country I have to accept the treatment due – my words go unanswered or they answer me, looking away. In a restaurant no one will sit with me at the same table. True, good acquaintances dare to move closer so they do not have to shout, but only good ones such as the Taminskys and Benjamin. Predictably, this time did not differ from all the previous occasions: we sat apart and had – mainly thanks to Arthur – a meaningless chitchat.

It is the best part of a day, he broadcasted to the table, unfortunately, the walls of time and duty are built on both sides of this wholesome hour. I would even designate time-duty as a single noun. Time-duty is very like space-time. Perhaps I’ve discovered a new law of physical reality – the law of time-duty. What do you say to that, daughter?

Caw-caw! An Einstein! If you were not confined by these walls, you’d burst from indulgencies.

That’s right, Arthur softened the sound of his voice, I need to be limited for my own good. I should be limited in both my repose and service to society, which I conduct no less passionately. However, the paradox of existence is that restrictions are imposed even on those who do not need them at all. Isn’t that so Benjamin?

If you are suggesting me, sir, Benjamin said, staring at Natasha’s fingers as they nervously moved across the table’s surface, if you mean me, I voluntarily restrain myself.

After a pause that coincided with a hesitation of Natasha’s hands, Benjamin quickly added, I only eat blood-free, motionless flesh growing from the soil! Arthur sighed, straightened the imagined wig on his head, looked out from underneath it at Benjamin and then at his daughter.

You eat weeds because you know too much. You’ve learnt various sayings, convinced yourself that meat is indecent and protected your digestive system from it. Vegetarianism, Benny, stems from the excesses of rationalisation and unnatural theories. I suspect that vegetarianism, forgive me for being rude, is akin to humanism.

Benjamin knew his boss well enough and understood the futility of any dispute with him. Arthur, without showing either an accomplished logic or outstanding knowledge of a subject, can always crush his opponents in a ‘discussion’ with pithy phrases and an assertive voice. Opinions expressed by him are convincing in and of themselves, regardless of their content. All this was familiar to Benjamin; he once again looked at Natasha’s hands and said, That is the point of view accepted by many.

Two waiters returned carrying orders and another cow appeared at the same time. This one approached Natasha’s back. The newcomer showed no interest in our company – she waved her tail while managing not to touch Natasha and laid a ‘cake’ behind her chair. After that everything repeated: the tiger’s reaction and the retreat of the herbivore. Similar to the first party, she knocked furniture over and smashed dishes upon her rapid exit. Both staff and human visitors have long been accustomed to such incidents. Arthur took to his food while Benjamin and I divided our attention between the meal and the bored Natasha.

Wine tastes like blood! Caw! Caw! she said, as if making the greatest discovery and awaiting the proper recognition for it. At the same time I knew that any attempt by Benjamin or me to praise her sophistication would be met with contemptuous indifference. As her father, the judge undertook to answer her and he did so, not raising his eyes from his plate.

Definitely. Much like yourself I have not tasted blood, except for licking a cut finger once in a while. However, I’m sure you’re right. Poetic dictum! Kind of veracity, which is truer than truth. What do we care about the real taste of blood? It may be like wine or something else. Here is the wine and we want it to resemble blood. Well, as a result it is assigned as such. Wine turns into blood – you may pour it into glasses, throats and ultimately arteries and veins.

Arthur cleared his plate, stretched out and graciously looked around, absorbing the bright and warm afternoon. Bars chuffed, half appeared from under the table and rolled onto his back with his powerful paws stretched toward the sky. Natasha pushed back her chair, knelt down and hugged the tiger. The chuffing stopped as Bars allowed her to caress him, but he extended his head to Arthur and gently touched his leg with his upper canines. Natasha looked up at Benjamin. For the first time this day I saw her human eyes.

Here is something, she said, which must be solved!

What’s that? Benjamin averted his eyes from Natasha and began examining the surface of the table.

Caw-caw? Tell me, what is love?

She was shifting the conversation to a topic unsuitable for lunchtime. Benjamin began to mumble that he could not define the condition without preparation… he needed to think and reflect.

At that moment I decided to go to the toilet. Even in a café I walked keeping my hand on my gun, inspecting the space to be crossed. After locking the door of the cubicle, I relaxed, did what nature demanded and decided not to – at least for today – burden my acquaintances with the problem of Helot and his sheep-friend. And I would not hurry back home. The young man would have to sit in the shed until the evening.

The same topic lingered at the table when I returned. They all spoke with arduous pathos sounding and looking like amateur actors. I caught the very end of the Arthur’s monologue.

…and even if you do not agree with my definition of the phenomenon, even if you assume that I failed to give an unambiguous delineation, it still explains the functional significance of the event. In other words, I know what love is needed for.

What is it for? exclaimed Benjamin rising from his seat.

What do you mean? croaked Natasha at the same time.

The answer was not long in coming, but before proceeding Arthur calmed the excited audience with a gentle flapping of his hand.

The creation of illusions! Love is the best material for illusionists. A creature filled with the feelings and emotions in question is prone to believe anything: to find a deck of cards in a pocket, a flock of pigeons under somebody’s sleeve… and, ultimately, the meaning of existence.

It may appear like that, but still I don’t believe you. Caw! Natasha interrupted.

I don’t believe myself either, Arthur reassured her.

Benjamin rose from the table. For a moment I suspected he wanted to go to the facility I had just visited but no, he was inclined to continue the debate.

Do you not believe yourself, sir?

Of course not! Arthur enjoyed the effect his outburst caused and the opportunity it presented to develop a new elocution. "Am I not a judge? If a judge puts trust in himself, justice will be upset. Chuff-chuff! With judges relying on themselves, we would have to get rid of both prosecution and